


Sunday Morning & Coffee

by lechatnoir



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Brotp, F/M, Gen, Male-Female Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-01
Updated: 2013-06-01
Packaged: 2017-12-13 16:18:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/826277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lechatnoir/pseuds/lechatnoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i> Reposted from tumblr </i> </p>
<p>They somewhat fit together, the two odd ones out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunday Morning & Coffee

i.

It starts with the shooting range, and she’s something stable, plaid and long hair with a surprised smirk on her face.

(She helps him , makes him get the target in the right places) 

It’s something like a mutual understanding, never quite fitting in to places, not when you were too tall, or the oldest child who needed to be the embodiment of perfection, or the odd child with vivid dreams and empathy coursing through you.

They make it work, somehow.

(In between cases they’ve taken to making coffee runs – sometimes Bev is there before he is, or she stops by before his classes start and drops him off a cup of piping coffee, something to warm his fingers, get that cold numbness away from him.

His fingers crackle and tingle as the nerves wake up and he manages to focus, and he can divide his mind, between the illusions and reality). 

ii.

When he stumbles out of the room hands bloody and breath seizing in his lungs like a caged bird flittering and bashing against his bones, he is afraid, and it is the old demons of monsters under his bed that make his blood run cold, knowing that he might have killed the girl – but he didn’t, did he?

He couldn’t have.

There are breaks and blank spaces in his mind, white space and negative matter that doesn’t seem to add up and he doesn’t know why but time escapes him, coursing through the wind and out of his head.

He has no doubts when he calls her, asks her to come to the scene again, because he needs to know what happened, and he can’t piece things together, not with the frayed ends that he has going on. 

She is black and leather and a calm smile as she watches him, because sure, he was a little odd but weren’t they all?

(Play the cello, little girl – why are you hanging around corpses and blood ripped faces?) 

“You’re clean, Will. “   
He thinks it’s a rush of air to his lungs and he nods to her.

(She makes a mental note to visit him, once she gets his address from Jack.) 

iii.

She arrives at his place in the early morning, sun peeking through the trees, bathing everything in whites and blues and reds and pastels.

She knocks three times, hands filled with cups of coffee and breakfast.

He stumbles out of bed, eyes groggy and stags dancing around his head again. 

Winston and the others crowd around him as he opens the door and he’s a bit surprised when he sees her, but she just shrugs and says something about being in the area and

‘No, Jack didn’t send me.’ 

And he lets her in, coffee hot and burning . 

They have breakfast on the floor of the main room, the dogs mulling around and crowding around them, watching and sniffing and thinking that their master has someone who he can trust, maybe.

 

They talk about everything and nothing, and he thinks he can sense the frayed ends slowly mending themselves together, in the morning hum of the trees.


End file.
